Marriage is the new going steady

your heart wont always be broken
and it wont always
stay
intact
explosions, cracks,
catastrophes
and-
there will be
bleeding

but there is glue
and stitches
and band-aids
and from time to time
shit like
words will heal
you -
a kiss will
hold you
together

the first time you
swallowed
the first time
i breathed
the first time it ever felt
good
the body we buried
the secrets we
swore
the drowning we witnessed
at sea

how we laughed at the
thought of a
happily
never after

the boat was
sinking

how we never
looked back

Stars in the Ceiling

she's getting her hair-cut. I hate passing the time…hate waiting. Im not good at it. nothing good comes of it - car crashes, drug deals, craigs-list, bank robberies, fast food, road trips, bad vibes, internet re-connections, a strangers touch. it always looks like im doing something bad but im not, its just passing the time, doing what you want me to do - to wait. this is how most of us wait.

Im restless, my head hurts, there are out-of-date magazines displayed on a table in the area meant for waiting. I sit on a hip mid-century reproduction sofa, it instantly makes my back hurt. everything in this place has a junk yard future. the bottles of chemicals, the furniture, the lights, the silly ass speakers painted black to match the ceiling and seemingly every stylists wardrobe, in here. but, we all look good in black. even me.

there is coffee free for the taking. coffee, magazines, uncomfortable chairs. these things seem to go hand and hand with waiting. the doctors office, emergency rooms, getting the oil changed in your car.waiting areas. mind numbing silence, hopelessness mixed with sweat and the breath of anti-depression medication. Magazines and coffee while waiting at the airport are not free, but its available and its mostly what people choose to do, even when mixed drinks, beer and warm cookies are totally an option.

Its morning, did i tell you that? im hungry thats probably why my head is hurting. I didnt eat breakfast. i didnt sleep very well either. Its morning but techno music is blasting from the ceiling speakers. I stare at sugar crystals someone spilled on the floor. someone should wipe the counter, sweep the floor. Isn’t someone always sweeping the floor in a hair-salon? i like when the shampoo girl massages my head. why cant i just get that? i almost drift to sleep, maybe i did.

i dont feel right. i havent been feeling right. Im here, waiting - I'm along for the ride. im outside myself looking-in. presence is poison and all i know is to retreat from it.
a women with smokey eye shadow walks over from behind a large greeting counter.
she asks if im okay. “im reading this magazine”, i shake it forcefully in-front of my face.
okay, but …
“It’s okay, Im waiting for her”
She looks in the general direction im looking for what seems like a long time, shrugs and walks away. No one comes to sweep.



I leaf through a Food And Wine magazine, there is a recipe for a spicy Sicilian sauce, i tear the page out- quickly fold it and place it in my front pocket. then, an article listing the Best Rustic Retreats to visit on a budget, I take that page too. Palo Duro Canyon State Park in Canyon,Texas or Devil's Den State Park in Arkansas are the most appealing. I have to remember to tell her later. this is where we should go, this is something we might like to do. pack the truck, take the dogs. rough it. she likes it rough.

lady in black comes back and asks if im okay. Of course im Okay.
"would you like a hair-cut" she asks. "you'd look good with your hair cut... hmmmmm, shorter- brushed to the front"
I say.. "like everyone else?" and then i stand up and tell her to let's cut my hair.

Im staring at the ceiling, resting back over the shampoo tank or bowl or sink, whatever it is....she sprays my head, testing the temperature of the water. " is okay?" I shut my eyes. shampoo smell, she begins rubbing, massaging. there are stars on the ceiling. I could fall asleep.
"who do you wait for? I see nothing"
I am shaken awake by what i perceive as an eastern block accent i hadn’t previously noticed. She has root-beer colored eyes, sprinkled with green. her voice is like someone you know or want to know. ” you say you wait?”
I am in front of a mirror sitting at the witches station and she is behind me with her snake eyes and scissors. I gaze into the mirror, slick wet pieces of black hair fall and stick to the cold white floor. the opposite of snow fall snip. snip. snip.

the reflection is me, but not me. It’s never really me. I look around the salon and it is empty beyond the low growl of techno beats. The witch and I, the witch and I and sugar granules spilled on the floor. snip.snip. Boom-Thump- hump- Boom. snip. snip.

Where I Lay, I'll Lie

these honey
bunches of words
these scratch marks
down my back
this hit
and
miss
troubling
as
sting of bees

as we lie
as we
lay
on this bed
stars-
on the ceiling

we say these certain phrases
in the heat of
these
stolen moments
it goes down easy
on sweaty sheets
all dirty words and
after-glow

but, i wonder without
these kiss fits
and fist stings
i wonder without
the honey,
could we ?

without the brutal
fuck force
of
promises
we never meant to
keep

this
silence,
suddenly
violently
random

I wanna do bad things to you

I'm in 3rd grade and the girl holding my hand, her name is Amy, she's in 8th. She volunteered from upper school with a group of other students. We are lined up along the wall, in the hallway as if being placed in front of a firing squad. Everyone from my class has to have their own "buddy” who will escort them to and from the school church. "Your buddy will meet you on every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning" instructs Sister Mary. The hallway is bright with sun. I have my left shoe off. im touching the cold white floor through a hole in my sock, my big toe pokes through. .. i bet if i ran i could slide 20 feet or more. i have the urge to run but don't. the older girls creep closer through the glowing white light. I can feel myself breathing. I feel the blood inside my skin - pulse.pulse.pulse.

I'm focusing my mental powers. I posses no true point of reference to what is or isn't pleasing to the eye. It is or isnt. im in 3rd grade everything is visual. everything is honest and heart-felt, mostly. Im attracted to peculiar details; a small gap between front teeth, a thin gold chain , a green hair barrette in the shape of a butterfly. The girls all wear the same school uniform; plaid skirt, white blouse, knee socks. I say a silent prayer. she is in front of me. Im lost in the shadow of her. she speaks, i mumble something to my feet. She tells me her name is Amy and takes my hand.

Sister Mary stays behind to grade papers. what i like best about her is she tells our class the most wonderful stories. stories of when she was younger, how difficult it was to become a nun, how she felt all she ever did was sin. she rubbed the beads of her rosary smooth over “thinking bad thoughts” and in repentance she once recited over two hundred Hail Marys in a single day! Her stories often ended with a deep sigh and watery eyes. I was taken in by her world, mesmerized by the rise and fall of sin - so much like mine.. so much like me

"bad thoughts". I wondered where she slept at night, if she ever drove a car, if she shopped for groceries, what was her favorite food and if she had ever listened to my favorite band KISS.

Amy loved the band Kiss. Peter Criss was her favorite because "he played drums like sex". I didnt know what "sex" meant, but is sounded like “bad thoughts” and that instantly excited me. what she asked me right before she took my hand was who my favorite band was. When i mumbled “Kiss.” She screamed "Rock and Roll all Night!!!! "

The church sat just west of the class room building. the sun stings my eyes walking toward cathedral ceilings and stained-glass glitter and shine. A somber Jesus- hangs above the altar, arms out-stretched as if saying "Why?" sometimes it looked more like " come let me give you a hug, you look like you could use one" It was both calming and scary at the same time and i liked this quite a bit.

Amy smelled of band-aids and strawberry shampoo, wore her hair in two braided hoops clipped with barrettes. when she spoke, I liked to look at the small space between her two front teeth.

It seemed like months but it was probably more like a few weeks. Three times a week, the short walk, holding her hand, answering questions she'd ask. Her laugh, her voice, her smile. She'd ask What was my favorite number? color? what girl did i think was prettiest in my class?

On Friday, it's hot, it will be summer vacation soon. no school. no nuns. no church. no Amy. We are walking back to class everyone is ahead of us. When we are alone she grabs me by the shoulders and grips me tight. she leans into my face and kisses me on my mouth. hard and wet and tasting like zebra stripe gum. She says it will be the last time she'd be able walk me, to see me, the school year was over for the 8th graders, two weeks earlier than lower grades. and then something about next year she'd be in another school and she really liked me, if i were older, when i get older..and I was thinking how I liked my mouth feeling so numb and bruised. she looked at me very serious and told me most times in life we never get a kiss goodbye, never even get to say goodbye. "People just"....she paused. "Leave" so this was a good thing but that i shouldn't tell anyone. She took my hand and it was true and true.

blueprint for something never finished

A false ending has two contexts; in literature it is a narrative device where the plot seems to be heading to its conclusion, but in reality, there's still more to the story. In a musical composition, it is a complete stop of the song for one or more seconds before continuing.
The presence of a false ending can be anticipated through a number of ways. The medium itself might betray that it isn't the true ending (i.e. it's only halfway into a book or a song, a film's listed running time hasn't fully elapsed, only half the world has been explored in a video game, etc.), making only stories with indeterminate running length or a multi-story structure able to pull this off effectively. Another indicator is the feeling that too much of the story is incomplete when the false ending comes, making it feel like there has to be more

Ive lost interest in chasing you with words. it's all headache and heart break. memories fragmented into tiny pieces. i take the pills, i drink the wine. i lied. I've built this story of you and us and of how we pine through this distance. the moon and stars we share, texas and shitty stucco walls , spanish guitar, romance and cigarettes. the medication and her new short hair-cut. the last time you called and wouldn't say good bye, but you meant it. baby, this time you meant it.

Ive built this story of myself. I hate you for it. I love you for it. Ive lost interest in chasing you with words. there is a feeling of relief and yet a sense of overwhelming loss. a day of the dead painted face, walking around like the whores we used to be. like we still are. for you and for everything. we are buried, still writing it all down. this is the end. that's what i write... The end.